so tonight i'll cut it out and then restart
by dharkephoenyx
Summary: "She doesn't love you because she has your mother's heart Finn. She loves you because you're your mother's son." AU Finn/Rachel and learning to live and love past the scars, physical and emotional..


**A/N: This one here is a Secret Santa gift for _tiltingaxis_, so sorry it's late! Merry Christmas love! Finchel AU with some blink-and-you'll-miss-it canon thrown in, some darkness, some fluff and a lil bit of smut! I had a silly idea, and I went with it, mkay!**

**Disclaimer: Glee is not mine, nope.**

* * *

_so tonight i'll cut it out and then restart_

:::

It's almost like he's roasting inside his skin. Heat searing his flesh, flames trying to force their way into his lungs. It's too fucking _hot_.

He tries to force away the fear trying to creep up on him, to take one deep breath, fighting to breathe clean air… instead the stinging scent of antiseptic and bleach assaults his nostrils and when he blinks his eyes open the first thing he sees is the monitor beside his bed, its steady _beep beep_ getting louder by the second.

His eyes move around the room slowly, taking in the pale blue walls, the flowers in the vase beside a jug and cup on the small table beside his bed, moonlight glinting through the slightly drawn curtains. It smells _clean_, so he's fairly sure he's not at home. His apartment is never this clean.

He lifts and moves his head a little to the side and a flash of pain and dizziness forces him back down.

"Ugh."

There's movement at the corner of his eyes, a flash of caramel skin and dark hair and suddenly a worried pair of brown eyes is blinking rapidly over at him.

"Finn?"

The woman is by his side in a second, her brows creased as she stares down at him. He grunts in response and tries to sit up again when she pushes down gently, albeit firmly, to stop him.

"No, no, don't move you idiot. You've been out for two full days. At least let the doctor make sure you don't have any brain injuries. Apart from the one I'm about to give you," she mutters. She squeezes his arm gently and moves to press the buzzer beside his bed. He coughs a little and she turns back to him. He looks around the room again, his gaze towards the door when he sees a woman in scrubs hurry past, and another stop just outside the door of his room. He frowns.

"San? Why am in the hospital?"

His best friend freezes and he watches her eyes narrow, her mouth thinning into a hard line. Santana hisses her teeth and settles back onto the chair, scowling at him.

"You tell me, what's the last thing you remember?"

He tries, ignoring the slight ache at his forehead.

He remembers going into work, checking the truck before sitting down to play poker with Artie and Mike, going out on a call. The fire.

It gets blurry afterwards but it's enough to give him a pretty good idea that that fire was a bad one, if he's been in the hospital for over two days.

A pretty dark-skinned woman comes in, dressed in a white coat and her hair in braids. Dr. Rutherford - he recognizes Mercedes from high school and on the few runs he's had to make to the hospital with guys from his squad. She smiles easily at him, asks him his name and a few standard questions. To find out if there's any memory loss, she says.

Santana actually smirks when he stumbles over name of the current president of the United States before he remembers that the same guy won again; he flips her off behind the doctor's back and she returns the gesture.

After a bit of poking and prodding the doctor leaves, and a nurse comes in to adjust his IV and mark stuff down on her clipboard and telling him to take it easy and the usual words of advice he'll never actually listen to but what Santana or his mother will make sure he never forgets. Speaking of his mother…

"Why are you here?"

Santana scowls at him and flips another page in the magazine she's reading.

"Your brother took your mother home to get changed and something to eat. She's been on shift 24 hours straight and then your big ass comes in bleeding and unconscious. Sometimes I think you're trying to give your mother a heart attack."

He'd throw a pillow at Santana but whatever medication the nurse just put in his IV is already making him drowsy so he flips her off again and closes his eyes, the pain in his head melting away.

"Is everyone else alright?" he manages to ask before he drifts off. He hasn't had a fire so bad that he has to be hospitalized since his first days as a candidate, and usually someone from the union would be hanging around to ask questions, not a fellow firefighter. In his room.

Santana doesn't answer, she keeps her nose down in the magazine she's pretending to read. She's ignoring him, which means something happened.

"San?"

A tear slips from her eye onto the magazine and when she does look up he almost wishes he never asked. His best friend rarely cries, and the last time she did was about eight months ago when –

Santana doesn't cry.

:::

It's not his fault, he knows that much. Matter of fact, if he wasn't there, chances are it could have been a whole lot worse. Still, it's a crap feeling, and he feels like a dick because of it. Especially when he can _walk_ into the fucking room.

"Finn, my man! How's the shoulder?"

And Artie is smiling. Despite purpling bruises on his cheek and the cut over his left eyebrow.

"Hey man. It's good. I'm gonna be in a sling for a few weeks but…" he trails off, unable to not look at Artie's legs hoisted in stirrups descending from the ceiling. Both legs are severely bandaged but Artie's smile is happy and genuine and Finn's concerned as fuck. Like, he really hopes this isn't one of those times where the person is in denial and you have to explain to them gently why some extremely fucked up thing had to happen to them so young in life.

And Artie is cool. Like he's smart as hell, and could have done anything he wanted to do in the world, but he chose to become a firefighter. And not two years on the squad and this had to happen. Honestly.

There's a split second when he wonders why it wasn't him.

"Finn."

He drags his eyes from Artie's broken legs and back to the guy's face.

"I'm sorry Artie. Fuck."

He stomps further into the room and drops down onto the chair near the bed. He starts to explain profusely, his words jumbled and not making a lick of sense and the guy's just staring back at him, a patient look on his face. He gives up, slumping in the chair when a nurse comes in to check on Artie. Neither of them say anything while she bustles about and when she finally walks out he stares after her.

"They tell me what you did Finn."

He doesn't _remember_ what he did.

He turns back to Artie, and the guy is staring at the LFD jacket tossed onto the other chair. Their eyes meet, and there's a sad, resigned look in the man's eyes.

"Dude, I'm alive. I'm paralyzed from the waist down, but fuck - I'm _alive_. And that was some superhero shit you did bro. I'm glad you're a stubborn motherfucker because if you weren't you'd be bringing flowers to my grave instead of porno and beer."

Artie frowns and peers at the bag in Finn's hand.

"You _did_ bring beer and porn, right?"

Finn snorts and shakes his head. He gets up and hands the bag over. "I brought the porn but Santana snagged the beer."

"Bitch," Artie mutters under his breath.

Finn laughs and claps him on the back.

"I know it's fucked up, but I'm real glad you're alright Abrams."

"Hey, thank you man. Really."

They shake hands before he leaves to walk back to his room.

He's still torn up about the fire and Artie's accident and he's sure someone somewhere has made some colossal mistake that all he has is a broken arm and a sprained collarbone with a concussion. He leans against the window in his room, outside dark and bleaky as rain splashes the windows, echoing his emotions.

The glass is cool against his forehead, but when he closes his eyes, it's the heat of the fire against his face, his vision and mind cloudy. Guilt nags at him when his eyes snap open to the wet world outside his window.

:::

He was actually too tired and slightly hung over to wonder why there was a light on in his apartment at 3am when he knew very well no one was supposed to be there. Granted, Lima wasn't actually known for a bad crime rate, but still. Stifling a yawn as he stumbles up the stairs, he opens the door as quietly as he can, eyes flitting about the room.

It was empty.

But there were sounds coming from his bedroom towards the back.

He kicks the door closed and fumbles for his baseball bat in the closet, hitting his elbow on the wall and letting out a string of muffled curses the same time his mother comes out of the room, a basket full of the dirty clothes he no doubt had strewn about his bedroom at her hip. She tsks as she passes him, grabbing a t-shirt from the back of his couch.

"Do I need to know why you're standing there holding a baseball bat?"

He grunts and drops the bat onto the floor, scratching his jaw as he stares at her.

"What are you doing here Mom?"

"Never mind what I'm doing here. It's a good thing I _am_ here. Do you ever clean, Finn? Lord, you'd think you grew up in a pig sty the mess this place is in. And this couch, why can't you get rid of it? Get a proper living room sofa?"

He sighs and rolls his eyes as she brushes past him, grabbing more discarded clothes he has tossed around the room.

He scowls and slouches off to the kitchen. He sticks his head in the fridge door and curses again when he finds it empty except for Tupperware containers with food his mother obviously brought along with vegetables and fruits. Not empty really, just, no beer.

"I threw them out."

He bites back another curse and stands up, slamming the door angrily.

"Why? Christ! This is _my_ house mom. Why do you feel the need to pop over whenever you feel like it and rearrange my life?"

His mother steps back, an affronted look on her face as she watches him with the same amber eyes she blessed him with.

"I haven't seen you in three months Finn. Not since you showed up at my hospital – unresponsive and bleeding might I add. I have to hear from Santana _about the explosion that knocked you unconscious_ when you were on a call and that you were _drinking_ before your shift?! What were you thinking?"

"I'm thinking it's really none of your business what I do with my life anymore. I'm a grown man mom, I don't need to be lectured or babied. Or for that matter, lied to."

He pushes past her and stalks to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

He would really prefer _not_ arguing with his mother for a change. It's not like he wants to. It's just. She wasn't happy when he chose not to go to college and join the army instead. And she was less enthusiastic about his current career choice. She said she was afraid he was following in his father's footsteps, and would end up the same way he did.

He thought she meant dying a hero. He grew up thinking he'd give anything to be the kind of man his father was.

The opening and closing of his front door tells him his mother had left. He strips and steps into the shower, the water scalding as he stands under it, head bowed against the tiles.

Sometimes, he thinks she might be right.

:::

"Why do programmers always mix up Halloween and Christmas?"

Finn snorts, wiping coffee from his chin and looks over at Artie. The other guy is grinning behind his glasses, fingers tapping on the wheel of his chair as he surveys the room.

"Anyone?"

Sam walks past, smacking the back of Artie's head as he grabs a chair. "No Abrams. We have no idea why programmers always mix up Halloween and Christmas. Since you're actually the only programmer we know."

"Or what passes for one nowadays," Azimio chuckles. Artie glowers and shows Sam his fist, winding the index finger of the other hand as his middle finger rises slowly from his fist.

After several months of rehabilitation and recovery, Artie had gotten quite used to his wheelchair. He wasn't bitter or angry about the loss of his legs or having to resign from duty as a firefighter. Better broken than dead he'd joked. He had gotten a job in dispatch while doing night classes at the community college, and he was planning to go MIT the next semester.

He envies the man sometimes and swallows the guilt that threatens to choke him every time he sees Artie in his wheelchair. The guy used to love to dance and was quick on his feet and _fuck_.

He didn't have that anymore.

His phone starts vibrating on the table in front them and he grabs it before Artie can launch into a stirring explanation of yet another joke that only he will ever get.

It's Kurt. His brother had Some Incredibly Important Shindig that he had regretted missing (no, not really) and both their parents had gone to New York to support him. He hadn't actually spoken to his mother since she'd showed up at his house that morning, and aside from short calls with his stepfather and stepbrother, he knew she was alright.

"Finn?"

"Hey Kurt? What's up?"

"You need to come to New York."

He groans, stepping away from the guys and ducking into one of the small bedrooms.

"Dude, I already told you, I'm not keen on seeing a bunch of clothes on women, no matter how good they look. Or the clothes," he jokes with his brother.

"No. It's not that. It's Mom."

Kurt only calls Carole Mom when one of them was in trouble or he wanted something.

It's kind of with a disjointed interest that he takes note of what's going on around him when Kurt starts talking again. Squeezing the phone so hard in his hand that he slices his palm, Santana appears and snatches it away before he can do more damage to it and to himself.

He stares at her, the low murmur of the others out in the rec room dimmer than the blood pounding in his ears as he watches her watch him, her face devoid of emotion as she listens to his brother on the other end. Santana walks off, heading towards the Chief's office and then they're both walking back out, his duffel over Santana's shoulders.

"Hudson, go. Take all the time you need. I'll shuffle your shifts around until you want to come back, don't worry about it."

He nods absently, his mind elsewhere. His Chief rests his heavy hand on his shoulder. "Finn."

He lifts his eyes to his Chief's. Chief Walker doesn't say anything else, just squeezes his shoulder briefly then nods at Santana.

Leaden feet carry him to his truck idling in the driveway, and as soon as he closes the door Santana speeds off into traffic, her eyes flickering over to him every few seconds. And she's still on the phone. Before he really understands what's happening, he's on a plane, in the air, his phone clasped in his hand as he looks down onto New York, snow falling lightly outside his window.

His brother pulls him into a hug outside arrivals, and the cold biting air doesn't bother him the least. His fingers and body feel numb, a hollow space where his heart was, left behind in Lima, on his mother's comfortably worn old couch.

:::

She was asleep when he went in. Looking small and frail beneath the hospital covers, her hand curled underneath his stepfather's. It was a bittersweet feeling: anger warring with fear as he watches the steady rise and fall of her chest. He glares at the row of monitors behind and beside her bed before finally glancing at the man sitting on the chair.

Burt's eyes are red-rimmed when he looks up and it looks like the man is carrying the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.

"Hey son," his stepfather says tiredly.

He nods in response to his stepfather, not taking his eyes off his mother's face. Burt gets up, offering him his chair and he takes it, nodding in response. He rubs his face with his hands, tugging at his hair until it hurts.

His last conversation with his mother plays on repeat over and over again and he squeezes his fist so hard it turns bone white.

Kurt comes back with cups of coffee and a sandwich for his father. Burt takes them but doesn't eat or drink, just stares at them in his hand.

He sips at the hot liquid Kurt offers him, grimacing as he chokes it down, but even that doesn't chase away the chill settling over him.

"Tell me everything," he murmurs, settling his hand over his mother's, curling his palm over hers. It's limp, warm and clammy, no response, no affectionate squeeze. Nothing.

"What happened?" He asks the men behind him.

:::

His feet lead him to the hospital church without him telling them to. He hasn't been to a church in forever, but he remembers his mother taking him to one when he was younger. One of her close friends had gotten married when he was about seven and his father's brother had succumbed to lung cancer when he was thirteen. And then his mom and Burt had gotten married three years later in one.

And it's not that he's a big fan of churches or has something against God or anything. Besides those occasions, he's just never had a reason to go to church before.

He's not sure why he's there now, but he's here so he figures he should make the best of it.

There's a girl standing by the windows near the doors, a small thing, dressed in a pink robe with an oxygen tank on a small set of wheels beside her. Thick brown hair cascades down her back as she leans by the window, tapping her small fingers on the glass as she hums.

He stops just before he pushes the door open, and she turns around, as if she senses him, her soft singing cutting off abruptly.

She's beautiful.

Big brown eyes gaze back at him, her nose is a bit on the large side and her full, red lips are slightly parted. Despite the breathing mask on her face, she looks like she just stepped off the pages off some exotic magazine.

She's not alluring like Santana who practically walks like sex, or pretty like his last girlfriend who looked and acted like some kind of blonde Stepford wife. It's more than that. She's both, plus more. Something and everything about her draws him in, like a painting done by one of those famous guys long ago or something.

He doesn't even realize he's just staring when she suddenly appears in front of him, her fingers cold on his arm.

"Are you OK?"

Her voice sounds like music, breathy and soft, burning through the cold. He jerks his arm away from her, pushing the door to the church open before collapsing onto the nearest pew. He presses the heel of his hands into the pads of his eyes, willing the pain to wake him up.

His mother was lying unconscious in a bed a few feet away and he was distracted by a pretty girl.

He folds his large body in on himself, resting his arms on the pew in front him, choosing his words carefully. He'd spent so long being mad at his mother he never even stopped to imagine a world where she wasn't there.

And he feels like some little kid, begging for one last time.

:::

"No."

"Finn -, would you just – listen -,"

He turns angry eyes onto his stepfather as the older man tries to reason with him.

"No," he snarls.

"Finn, it's not your choice." Burt's voice cracks a little and he sighs, tugging the hat from his head. "Nor is it mine really. Your mother wanted this."

"She signed the form, Finn," Kurt says gently.

He turns his eyes to his brother, seeing the matching pain and sadness reflected in the other man's glasz eyes. Kurt's eyes flicker back to their mother who looks like she was merely sleeping peacefully.

She had fallen unconscious not soon after Burt had brought her to the hospital. Brain aneurysm the doctors said. And they didn't think it was likely she would ever come out of the coma.

It's like his worst nightmares were crawling out of the dream world and grinning at him. His mother was _dying_. And the last time he'd seen her he'd been a dick. Maybe he was finally being punished. The fire. Artie. His mom.

Was _this_ his punishment? Lifelong guilt?

"I can't lose her Burt," he blurts out.

He hears the hitch in his stepfather's voice as he tries to speak and from the corner of his eye can see his stepbrother brush away brush away tears, more falling quicker with every brush of his fingers.

"It's not like it's something we had ever discussed at length, son. But she was lucid enough to sign the papers when she was first admitted. She knew going in what the risks were, what could happen and that she might never wake up. She made her choice."

He just. Wanted more time. To talk to her one last time. To _say _goodbye at least.

How the hell do they expect him to do this? Didn't he have a right to know that she had made this decision? Still, it was just like Carole to do something like this. Unselfish to a fault.

He stalks over to his mother's bed – angry - gripping her shoulder hard.

"Finn-,"

He ignores his stepfather.

"Mom. _Wake up!_ You have to wake up. I know I was an ass the last time we spoke and I'm so fucking sorry. But you gotta wake up so we can talk. I should've tried talking to you after you told me about my father…" His voice breaks and he drops to the floor and looks up to Burt and Kurt behind him.

"I should've handled it better, I'm sorry. It can't be too late for me to make this right. Please?"

Kurt starts crying openly now, clutching his sweater with red eyes, his shoulders shaking. Burt reaches out and rests his hand on his son's shoulder and it just seems to make Kurt cry harder instead of comforting him.

Burt was losing his wife. Kurt was losing a mother. Again.

Why couldn't he be the man his mother had believed him to be? Strong? Caring?

He can't even fucking _cry_. Can he do nothing right?

:::

"Your mother really is saving lives today Mr. Hudson. If anything, please remember that. Her selfless act will help at least five people - two from this very hospital - get their lives back. Your mother is a remarkable woman."

He doesn't answer the doctor. He understands the man is just trying to be friendly and understanding to some extent, but honestly, he couldn't give a fuck. No more fucks left to give. He's numb when one of the nurses start disconnecting tubes from his mother's chest, the silence deafening in the room.

It's ridiculous to believe that this was it. The last time he would ever see his mother alive. Not even a goodbye.

The last thing he would remember about his mother was her face when he was being a complete asshole and disrespecting her. That wasn't how she had raised him and shame burns his face when he wonders what she must have thought about him when she left.

His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and he steps away from his stepfather and stepbrother, asking for a minute alone.

For twenty-six years this woman was his champion, his first friend, his biggest supporter and the one person who he never wanted to disappoint. And in one night he managed to sully everything he'd ever thought his mother was. Looking back now, he realizes how stupid and childish and idiotic his anger was, his mother deserves – _deserved -_ better than that.

He takes her hand in his, the skin still warm and smelling like the lavender lotion Kurt always bought her for her birthday. He presses his lips softly to her hand, trying to remember his mother alive, whole, happy and well, wishing those memories could burn away the shame and embarrassment on his heart.

:::

The girl is back by the window when he goes back to the church. Again, he doesn't know why he goes – it just _feels_ like he should go there.

She's still in her pink robe, hair in a thick braid this time. She's humming a happier song, fingers tapping idly on the glass. She sees his reflection in the mirror and turns around, a shy smile lighting her face.

He scowls at her, angry at the warmth that seems to spread from the small smile she offers him. She gets to smile and be happy when they just unplugged his mother from life support. This really must be some cruel joke someone was playing on him.

Her smile changes as she stares at him, her brows creasing, eyes widening and she takes a step closer to him.

He stares at the door, then back at the girl, back at the big brown eyes watching him curiously. He shakes his head and turns away, striding towards the elevator. Heading out in the snow falling and crunching under his footsteps.

Angry at his mother, at the girl, angry at world.

And so fucking angry at himself.

:::

Fuck Christmas.

He's goes back to Ohio with his mother's ashes three days later. He didn't even ask what they took from her body, he just hangs back as Burt settles the paperwork, keeping his arm around his crying brother.

Everyone around was smiling and happy and singing carols, calling Merry Christmas at every corner and he had to bit his lip to refrain from telling them to shut the fuck up. Kurt's boyfriend meets them at the door, Kurt hurrying over to Dave, squeezing the man tight. He sits with Burt in the back of the SUV, glaring outside the window as they head to the airport.

He wants to rip his ears off when he hears more singing at JFK. Like, how did everyone else have so much fucking cheer when he felt like curling up into a ball in some dark corner and rotting away?

He makes a beeline for a bar in the airport lounge, staying there til boarding. He ignores the questioning looks of his family, letting the bliss of his hangover lull him to sleep on the flight. He goes straight home in a cab from the airport, pulling a flask of whiskey from the back of his cupboard and drifts back to sleep when that's finished.

:::

A month later he officially goes back to work.

The new year had already started, Burt had reopened the shop and Kurt and Dave had gone back to New York. He goes out drinking with Santana and some of the guys from his squad two nights after his first day back.

He's not mourning really, he's. Adapting.

He wakes up in some chick's bed and can't even remember her name when she puts her hand down his pants. He lets her suck him off, promises to call her and then stumbles out of her house and jogs to the firehouse about twenty minutes before he goes on the clock.

"You really should go get some antibiotics or tested or something."

He turns around to see Santana glaring at him.

"This is the men's locker room Santana. Get the fuck out."

Santana snorts. "Funny. I don't see any men in here."

He glowers at her back as she saunters away.

:::

He's back in the hospital. The last place he wants to be.

Opening his eyes slowly, he blinks against the harshness of the light, his brother's silhouette coming into focus, curled up on the lone chair in the room snoring softly.

It's not as bad as the last time, smoke inhalation, sprained wrist. The doctor asks him if he drank any alcohol before reporting for work and he just stares at the man blankly as the doctor prattles on about his blood alcohol level. He nods; giving the appropriate answers that seems to pacify the man and he leaves.

"You've been drinking."

He doesn't respond to Kurt.

"Santana says you show up drunk to work almost every day. You've already gotten a black mark on your record and they're planning on investigating the call your truck went on when one of the men you were responsible for broke his back."

Still, he says nothing.

"Finn, do you understand what this could mean?"

He sighs heavily and turns to his brother.

"Honestly Kurt, why do you care?"

His brother looks surprised, blinking rapidly. "Why? You're my brother Finn. What do you expect?"

"Nothing man. Just forget about it."

There's a beat of silence before Kurt speaks again.

"Is this about your mother? Look, Finn -"

"Kurt, just – drop it."

"If you need to talk -,"

"Kurt!" he shouts, his eyes flashing.

His brother jumps in fright.

He's never raised his voice at Kurt before. Twelve years of being brothers. They'd teased and playfully fought each other growing up and he'd gotten in countless fights for defending his gay brother but never before had he ever been violent towards his brother.

"Look, I'm alright. Can we just go?"

Kurt nods, and watches him get dressed but doesn't say anything.

He wakes up the next day to banging on his door. Groggily, he opens it to see Santana and Burt glaring at him. Santana pushes her way inside and Burt follows her in. Neither of them speak to him, but they literally ransack his apartment, stuffing two garbage bags with empty bottles of alcohol that they poured down the sink.

"This," his stepfather approaches him, speaking through clenched teeth and holding up the garbage bag in his hands, "is strike two."

:::

It's by total chance he sees her – and he recognizes her instantly.

He's standing outside a coffee shop in the city, waiting on some ridiculous coffee orders Kurt's boyfriend and Santana want when the bus stops and his eyes glance at the ad on the side. It's for some show he's never heard of but pretty sure Kurt might have. For Broadway.

But it's _her_; he'd recognize those eyes and that nose anywhere.

He's in New York on vacation as suggested by his chief. With Santana as his bodyguard apparently. She's been like a bloodhound the past few months since the night she and Burt destroyed all the alcohol in his apartment.

He's not allowed near alcohol. At all. Not even mouthwash. Santana drags him to AA every fucking Friday and is like a thorn in his side when he doesn't want to talk.

Still.

It's a step forward.

Santana doesn't give him too much grief for wanting to see the show. He would've taken Kurt, or Dave but knowing them they would have a million questions to ask him why he wanted to go since it was Kurt who was more interested in performance shows. His best friend just wanted NY pizza.

And he figures Santana owes him. She's been riding his ass so hard, the least he can do is let her suffer along with him.

His heart doesn't beat for the entire play, but the second the lights come up after the final play, he's on his feet before anyone else, clapping the hardest he possibly can as the cast lines up across the stage, beaming and blowing kisses out to the crowd. She's standing to the extreme right on the stage, hidden along the line by her other cast members, still small and still beautiful. And her voice... it was bigger than her body.

Just before the curtain closes, her eyes slide over the audience, and catches his. He sees the flash of recognition on her face, her eyes widening in surprise and there's this little flutter in his chest when he hopes she really does remember him.

:::

"She's cute," Santana says.

He looks askance at her and Santana shrugs. "Seriously. A bit short, nose is a little big, but she's a doll. I can see why you like her. With a voice like that? Damn. _I'd _like her."

"I don't _like_ her. I don't even know her," he scoffs.

"No. You just decide to drag my ass out in the rain in New York to a Broadway show for no particular reason."

"Pizza," he offers.

"Fuck the pizza," Santana snorts. She puts her hand on his chest to stop him, turning to face him.

"Finn, we've been friends for twenty years. I remember Legos. I remember you going bananas because Suzie Mars kissed you on the cheek when we were nine. I remember you saying yes to Sugar Motta – _yech_ - asking you to the Sadie Hawkins dance when we were fifteen and I remember Quinn Fabray starting sophomore year with your football Letterman jacket. I remember all those girls fawning over you in your uniform every time you even set foot in a supermarket wearing that LFD t-shirt. But I've never seen you willingly sit through a Broadway performance with your mouth catching flies."

He sighs and crosses his fingers as he stares her down.

He looks away first.

"It's not a bad thing if you like her you know."

"I don't like her Santana. It's just…" he stops and turns back to his best friend. "When my mom was in the hospital, I saw her there too. A couple of times. With an oxygen tank. We never really spoke but I guess I never really forgot about her."

"An oxygen tank? And she can sing like that? Wow."

He shrugs and starts walking again. Two years. Barely two years. A chance meeting twice and an ad on the side of a bus. She'd clearly made more of an impression than he'd originally thought.

"You owe me something better than fucking pizza because that Rachel Cherry was good, but she was fucking loud," Santana grumbles as she pushes past him.

"Berry," he corrects her without thinking.

His best friend glances back at him, a wicked smile on her face. He chuckles, his cheeks warming in embarrassment.

:::

Santana absolutely throws a fit when he tells her about the transfer. Including tossing his clothes on the floor as he attempts to pack them in his suitcase.

"You hate New York. It's like the noisiest fucking place in the country and you want to _move_ there? What the actual fuck?"

He laughs at her and tosses more clothes into his suitcase. She promptly tugs them back out.

"No seriously. Why are you moving there?"

Honestly, he wants the change. Lima had too many bad memories, and his mother's grave.

New York would keep him busy, help him forget. It was loud and alive and full of life and people and a lot more trouble than he would get in a township in Ohio. Lima was his home, and all his friends and what was left of his family was still here – but he needed to get out before he stifled himself. His brother was welcoming him there too, offering him the use of his apartment since he already spent enough time at Dave's.

Also - and he would never admit this to anyone - but Broadway. He'd gone back to see Rachel perform every show since he had first went with Santana. He'd Googled her, cautiously asking his brother if he'd heard about her.

The chances of him actually meeting her one day were slim to none and it may be tantamount to stalking, but yea. Hearing her sing made him feel _good_. And he liked that feeling.

"You don't need me around San. You have Puck to keep you busy."

He peeks over at her, and chuckles at the blush on her face. She had been chatting up the new EMT since his first day on shift, and had something that looked suspiciously like a hickey on her neck last week. But he didn't ask.

Santana punches him on the shoulder and scowls.

"Listen, it's only a few hours away by plane. You can come visit me anytime you want. And I'll still go to my meetings, I promise you Kurt won't let me not go."

He pushes the bags aside and tugs her down onto the bed beside him.

"I need to breathe San. I've done too many bad things here. I'm not running away, it's just. I want to start over. Somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere no one knows me. Where I don't have the guilt eating at me everywhere I look."

"You can't outrun who you are, you know that, right?" Santana asks quietly.

He nods and throws his arm around her shoulder.

"I'm not running away. I'm just starting over," he repeats.

"I still say you're a wuss," she snorts.

He laughs and pulls her into a hug, burying his face into her neck.

"Oh god. Please let me go! I'm having feelings right now and this wetness on my face is unacceptable," Santana's muffled voice comes from his chest. She pulls away from him, wiping her fingers under her eyes.

"Isn't that cute? And here all along I thought you were a cold-hearted bitch."

"Fuck you very much Finn."

He chuckles and pulls her back in his arms, smiling to himself when she squeezes him a bit tighter.

:::

He's not great, but he's putting on foot in front of the order every day.

He even starts volunteering at the hospital his first month in New York. The same hospital his mother was in. It's Dave's idea – his best friend Ryder was an EMT there, and Finn's seen him a few times at the firehouse he's stationed at.

He's making friends, going to his meetings and even helping Dave build up the courage to call Burt to ask for his blessing so he can propose to Kurt. It's a done deal - Burt's just waiting for him to actually _ask_ (since Santana had literally spilled the beans the last time she was in New York. She had no tact whatsoever and teased Dave mercilessly for no other reason than that it made her laugh.)

He still spoke to her almost every day when she'd try and avoid his questions about her budding romance with Puckerman. She was a mean-spirited, colossal bitch and he loves that about her. She keeps him updated about Artie at least, and he does call the man from time to time. He's loving Cambridge and even found himself a girlfriend there.

So, things were better.

Even better when he runs into Rachel Berry his second week at the hospital.

She's not looking where she's going, a pile of papers in her arms as she rushes down the corridor. He catches her before she falls, her papers and his drumsticks clattering to the floor.

She so small, fitting neatly into the cradle of his arms, and her cheeks colour prettily when their eyes meet. She doesn't pull away from him and more than a minute passes before he sets her upright, his palms burning when he takes them from her arms.

"Sorry about that," she says breathily.

"It's fine, really."

She's still staring at him, her brown eyes tracing his face. "I know you."

He stares at her, waiting for her to remember.

"You were at my show."

Well, he didn't expect her to remember that.

He nods shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"And I've seen you here before…" She puts her hand over her chest as her words trail off.

"Yea -, um, hi. I'm Finn. Finn Hudson." He smiles nervously at her and holds his hand out.

"Rachel. Rachel Berry." Her small hand fits perfectly into his, fingers small and delicate, skin soft.

"I remember, I heard you sing," he says quietly.

The blush on her cheek deepens and she ducks her head, finally realizing her papers are still scattered on the floor.

"Crap!" She bends down, hastily grabbing them up and he stoops down to help her. She smells nice and she looks nice in a pretty, collared blue dress with her hair tied up in a ribbon at the base of her neck.

They finally get her papers together and she retrieves his drumsticks and hands them over to him. "Are you in a band?"

He shakes his head and smiles. "I play just for fun really, I volunteer with the kids on the paediatric ward. Most of the boys love to bang on the drums."

"Well that's nice. A drum playing fire-fighter." She taps the FDNY logo on his t-shirt and winks up at him. She walks off, heading towards the elevator then turns and smiles at him.

"Well, it's my lucky day then, I volunteer here too. I just hadn't had the time until my last play closed a few weeks ago. I come here during rehearsals."

He hurries to catch up to her and steps into the lift behind her. She turns and smiles up at him.

"So, Finn Hudson. You've seen my show more than a few times. And you're a firefighter. Tell me more."

:::

He starts finding more and reasons to go to the hospital when he's not working. Rachel's last show had wrapped production and she was taking some time off before starting rehearsals for another revival he's never heard about. His brother has (of course) and has been begging nonstop (every day) for Finn to get tickets.

(What is so special about people singing about rent though? He doesn't get it.)

He gets to see Rachel more often, waiting for her after volunteering, going out for coffee, talking on the phone late nights and early mornings. It feels like he's in high school again, butterflies and blushing and he wants to know everything about her.

Kurt grins every time he comes over, insisting he wants to meet the woman who's turned his brother into a lovesick fool. He and Rachel aren't exactly dating, but he's pretty sure inviting her to meet the crazy people in his life would be a bad idea.

They've only been hanging out for a little while, but it's really the happiest he's ever been in a long time.

A few weeks after meeting her at the hospital, he goes to his AA meeting as usual. He still doesn't really talk about himself there but today is the day he gets his one year sobriety chip and the first person he wants to tell is Rachel.

The thought of his mother flashes painfully before he pushes it away, and dials Rachel's number as soon as he steps outside.

She meets him a café near her apartment. Dumps too much sugar into her tea and steals a piece of his chocolate chip muffin, smiling up at him with big brown eyes. He doesn't tell her exactly why he's there, and why he wants to celebrate, but she smiles at him nonetheless.

"I figure when you want to tell me, you will. But you look really happy right now so I'm guessing it's a good thing."

He smiles and squeezes her hand on the table between them, his cheeks warming when Rachel blushes, lowering her eyes to the cup in front her.

He wants to tell her, he really does. But how to tell her without painting an ugly picture about his life before he was this happy? She seems to really like him, and he _really_ likes her.

After he walks Rachel back to her apartment, with a promise of dinner the next day he calls Santana. Who tells him to man up and stop interrupting her during sex.

:::

He comes home from work one evening with Kurt, Santana and Rachel laughing and joking like old friends in his kitchen.

He stops and walks about into the hallway to make sure he's in the correct apartment before peeking back in.

"What's going here?"

"Hi." Rachel comes over and kisses him on the cheek, her eyes shy when she looks back to his brother and best friend.

"I um, I baked today and took them to the firehouse but I ran into your brother and Santana. And we got to talking and came back here…"

She bites her lip nervously, fidgeting with her collar as she trails off.

"Oh for chrissakes Finn, stop scaring the woman. We were just talking is all. Don't worry, your virtue is still safe," Santana calls out, nibbling on a cookie.

He wraps an arm around Rachel, smiling down at her. Kurt and Santana in one afternoon would be a headache for anyone, but she seemed more nervous that she was in his apartment that the fact that she was here with them.

"Did you at least leave me any cookies?" he asks winking.

"Nope. Dude, these are good! Rachel, I think I'll need this recipe!" Kurt hollers back.

Rachel shows up with more cookies one evening when they're volunteering at the hospital, and it turns into coffee afterwards. He kisses her on the cheek when he walks her home – he has to take the train and a cab to get her home but still – and she turns her cheek at the last minute, pressing her lips to his.

He can't remember the last time he's held someone like this, slanting his lips over hers, her mouth so sweet, her kisses spreading tingles throughout his body. He pushes his hands in her hair, bending her backwards for better access to her mouth and he's tempted to pull her in his arms when he remembers they're standing on her front steps in the early hours of the morning.

"Is it bad that I really want to take you inside with me now?" she asks breathily, her lashes fluttering against his chin as she blinks her eyes open.

He bites back a groan and curls her hair in his palm, kissing her chin softly.

"No. I think that's a really, really good idea," he murmurs when her hands trail over his arms, squeezing his shoulder.

"Do you want to?"

He pulls away, looking down at her, looking up at him shyly from under lashes. Her lips are slightly swollen and pink, begging him to kiss her again.

And he wants to, he really, really fucking wants to.

He touches her lips instead, his thumb rubbing over the warm flesh and drags his eyes to hers.

"Another time?" he asks hoarsely.

Disappointment flashes briefly over her face before she steps back, nodding. She fumbles with the key in the lock for a second before it opens. She turns back to him, pushing herself up on her toes to press her lips to cheek before slipping inside.

His cheek tingles the entire way home as he wars with himself for a valid reason why he didn't just say yes.

:::

"You know, you never really told me why you were in the hospital, the first time I saw you."

July is frighteningly warm, and they're sitting on a park bench near the firehouse having lunch. He's hot, almost stifling in his t-shirt and Rachel is still wearing a high collared blouse. He doesn't know how she does it.

Rachel balls up her sandwich wrapper and fiddles with her hair, peeking at him shyly.

"It's funny, there are all these articles and write-ups about me in quite a few magazines but few people really know the real Rachel Berry." She laughs nervously.

It's been more than a few months since he's been hanging out with her now. He knows the basics of course. She has two dads (but doesn't really know which man is her biological father, she doesn't care to know – doesn't matter anyway to her); has two really close friends, Mike and Lauren who she's known since preschool; she's been a vegetarian since she was seven and loves horses but hates horse-driven carriages.

And she's always wanted to sing. Ever since she was three.

"Maybe they aren't looking deep enough," he says carefully. He's told her almost everything about himself except the parts he's ashamed about. She doesn't pry, she just listens.

Rachel shrugs and fiddles with the end of her hair resting against her collarbone.

"Maybe. It's not that I'm ashamed of it or anything. It's just easier to avoid… the staring, the questions."

He frowns in confusion and Rachel sighs and turns away from him, dropping her hands onto her lap.

"When I was younger, kids in school used to bully me a lot. That's how I became friends with Mike and Lauren – they were outcasts too in some way. I was always a bit headstrong, always had an opinion. But I wasn't pretty like the other girls, I wasn't tall and shapely and all I had going for me was my voice. But people couldn't see past that, and that didn't make me worthy."

He raises his eyebrows and Rachel laughs at him. "Yes, I wasn't always this fantastic you know," she says playfully.

It's hard to imagine this vivacious woman anything but amazing in high school, so full-spirited and alive.

"What do you mean?"

She's quiet for a minute before she turns to face him. "I had cardiomyopathy when I little. It's a long, complicated explanation so I'll spare you the details, but basically the muscles in my heart kept wearing out, so the older I got the harder it got to breathe and move about and sing." She smiles sadly.

"Kids at school thought because of that, added to the fact that I had two gay dads meant I wasn't good enough or something. They called me weird, other funny names… I was teased so much at school, my dads wanted to homeschool me. I didn't have many friends. But, I stuck it out. I met Lauren when I was about ten and this girl tried to push me down the stairs and Lauren pulled me out of the way. Mike was really shy and people thought he couldn't talk and I remember I screamed at this boy to leave him alone and when he turned on me Lauren and Mike both stood beside me. We all got detention then."

She covers her mouth as she laughs softly, her eyes twinkling with mirth. He likes seeing her like this.

"The doctors told my parents I needed a heart transplant, and they put me on the waiting list. But leave it to me to have one of the rarest blood types in the US, I spent six years on that list. I got lucky though."

She reaches up and unbuttons the collar of her her blouse, revealing a faint pink scar on her chest, running vertically just under her throat, disappearing down towards her abdomen.

"When you saw me in the hospital, I was just there for some follow-up tests… a couple days later they told me a heart was available."

He stares at the scar on her chest until his vision blurs, the vein in his forehead throbbing.

The memories play back in his mind, like an old movie: his mother and a bunch of some of the nurses taking blood at a blood drive they held at the high school, Kurt calling him, his mother unconscious in the hospital bed, the doctor talking about his mother saving lives.

Blood starts pounding in his ears as his mind raced. What was the probability…?

He's almost glad for the accident – or whatever it is – when Ryder shouts for him the same time he hears the alarm from inside. He stumbles away from Rachel's questioning gaze, blurting out that he'll call her later.

He's numb on the entire call about an accident on the freeway. When he gets back to the firehouse he finds a corner so he can sit and think.

Could it be?

:::

You ever feel like the universe is playing a monumental prank on you?

It's all he can think about the next couple of days. Rachel. Her heart transplant the same time his mother was in the hospital. His mother.

Was it really possible that she had received his mother's heart?

The idea was too incredulous to be true. He had never asked for details, Burt had handled all of that and it had been long enough that he wasn't even sure if it were possible to ask now who had received his mother's donated organs.

Still, it's all he can think about.

So he's basically been ignoring Rachel. Missing her calls, making excuses why he can't see her. It's stupid really – honestly such a ridiculous idea the mere fact that he's even worrying about it makes him wonder if he's even a little bit insane.

So what if she has his mother's heart? Does it really explain how attracted he is to her? Or how she feels about him?

He doesn't know who to talk to without them laughing him to scorn; his brother actually hung up when he called to tell him and Santana – well, is being Santana. She told him to stop being a pussy.

He's talking to his chief about the shift calendar one afternoon when one of the paramedics, Eera, pops her head in the office, calling out to him.

"Huddy, you have a visitor."

Somehow he knows who it is before he even gets up. Eera has this look that's equal parts patronizing, trying to look stern and trying not to smirk at the same time. Since he's been there, the only persons to come by are his stepfather, stepbrother and Santana, and they would've called first.

He nods at Eera, excuses himself and walks solemnly towards the driveway.

It's a bit muggy and warm for August and as usual, Rachel's wearing her high-collared shirt and leggings, her hands stuffed in her jacket. She hears him as he approaches, and turns to watch as he walks closer, her eyes flashing.

He stops in front of her, folding his arms across his chest, offering a lacklustre greeting.

"So that's it? You disappear one evening, don't return my calls, refusing to see me and you have nothing to say?"

What could he say? Without sounding like a petulant child or a crazy person? So he says nothing, just stares at woman in front of him. Rachel glares back at him, her brown eyes fierce and he looks away, fidgeting nervously.

She laughs harshly and throws her hand in the air.

"You can't even look me in the eye!"

He winces, glancing back at the firehouse, almost sure the others inside are watching them. He remembers Eera's face and gives a heavy sigh, choosing his words carefully and prays that this conversation goes a whole lot better than how he suspects it will.

"Your heart. When you met me in the hospital all those years ago, my mother was in a coma. You got her heart when she died," he murmurs quietly.

Rachel's mouth falls open in shock and she blinks at him slowly, her hand against her chest, fingers curling the shirt over her scar. She lifts her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp and then reaches out to him.

He steps away from her grasp, hating himself a little for putting that hurt look on her face when he does.

"Finn, I'm sorry."

He grunts and looks away, over her head.

"You didn't do anything, Rachel. Believe me, you got the better end of the deal. I just. I just couldn't fix it."

"Fix what Finn? I care about you so much. But, I don't understand," she says gently. She steps closer to him, and again he steps away.

This isn't the time and place to say anything, but he's been holding everything inside for so long, it's almost a relief when he opens his mouth again.

He tells her everything, about the last time he and his mother spoke, her accident. He doesn't mean to sound bitter or for his words to be so harsh. But tears are streaming down her face when he finishes, her hand clamped over her mouth as she stares up at him.

"Oh Finn…"

"You don't know me Rachel so how can you care about me?"

She steps closer to him, gripping his hands between hers. "So tell me Finn. Tell me who you are. Tell me about Lima, tell me about your mother. You've never talked about her before."

He pulls his hands away slowly, staring at a point just over her shoulder so he doesn't have to watch the hurt twisting her face.

"Who I am is broken, and a disappointment. I thought I was better, I thought I was learning to deal with my past. And I care about you, I really do Rachel. But now, I don't know what to think anymore."

He leaves her there, alone and crying in the driveway, slouching back to the locker rooms. It feels like he's digging his heart out with a rusty spoon, and every twist just hurts even more than the first.

:::

Santana appears on his front steps with fire in her eyes and ice on her voice. She comes up close, sniffing him and then snatches the bag from his hands, yanking the bottle out and gives a small sigh of relief when she sees it's unopened.

She breaks the bottle on the wall beside the trash can, the strong scent of alcohol permeating the air around them and tosses the broken shards into the garbage bin.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" She whirls around to him.

He grimaces at her tone, turning his face away from her.

"Do you remember the last time you did something this stupid? We almost fucking died, Finn."

He peers up at her, suddenly too tired. "So you know then? Kurt told you?"

"Yes. And clearly you made me fly out to New York for some bitch ass reason. Honestly Finn."

He glares at her and gets up, towering over her.

"So why the fuck are you even here Santana?" He snarls.

Santana steps up onto the step beside him and snarls back him. "Because, we've been friends for too long and been through too much shit for you want to throw it all away for a stupid fucking idea Finn Hudson."

He turns away from her and moves to go up the stairs. "Go home Santana."

The woman grabs his arm and yanks him back, pushing him down onto the stairs.

"No," she hisses. "Apparently you haven't heard one thing I've been saying to you all these years. You aren't your father Finn. You thought he was some great hero, and turns out your mom lied about that and he was really some drunk who died in a shitty motel. So what? You aren't him. You never were. Are you going to still try and follow in his footsteps?"

He moves to get up and Santana puts her booted foot against his chest. "I am not finished. Four years ago you got so fucking wasted because of that argument with your mother. You literally ran your truck into a fucking wall Finn. And I was in it with you. I stuck by your side through every fucking minute of the hell you were going through. And then you started getting better and I promised you that I'd be the biggest bitch to make sure that never happens again."

She pauses and tugs on her ponytail before sighing.

"I'm sorry about your mom, Finn, you know I loved her like she was my own. I'm sorry she lied to you and I'm sorry you never got the chance to tell her how you really felt before she died. She was hurt but she understood that that's not who you were Finn – you aren't your father. You've made some mistakes but you've done more good with your life than he ever did when he was your age. You're a better man than he was."

She drops down beside him and nudges his shoulder with hers. "I know that. Your stepfather and brother know that. Your friends at work do. So why do you think Rachel can't see that?"

He looks out onto the empty street and shakes his head slowly.

"How can she really love me when she doesn't even know who I am? What I've done? She has my mom's heart Santana. Supposed that's the only reason she cares about me?"

Logically speaking, it's a ridiculous idea and it's still all he could think of. And it scares him. He pushes away from his best friend and stomps down the stairs, but still Santana follows him, her voice loud as she hurries after him.

"She doesn't love you because she has your mother's heart Finn! She loves you because you're your mother's son. Carole Hummel was an amazing woman, and she helped you to grow into an amazing man, Finn. Your heart is bigger than your whole body, you're compassionate, sweet, a bit goofy, a wonderful friend and any woman would be infinitely lucky to have you as a part of her life."

He stops and turns back to look at Santana. "But what if you're wrong, San? What if that's the only reason? After all that I've done, if she ever really _knew_ me, how could she still want me?"

Sighing, Santana steps closer to him, the flash of her engagement ring almost blinding in the streetlight overhead. She pokes him in the chest as she speaks.

"You still think you're some kind of horrible person. I don't think that's the case. But, let's say it is, then it means that your mother's heart recognizes the potential you still have, all that you can still do and give and _be_. Rachel loves you, any fool can see that. Talk to her, just listen, please? She's not going to leave you, and neither will I."

He snorts and turns his head away, blinking away tears. "Really? You know Puck doesn't like to share."

Santana laughs and pushes herself into his arms, pressing her face into his chest.

"You had me first. You're my best friend and I swear to fuck I will castrate you if you tell anyone I said this, but I like you, and nothing short of a natural disaster can keep me away from you. I'm not going anywhere. So for fuck's sake stop being so hard on yourself."

He sighs and wraps his arms tightly around her, chuckling softly at the litany of Spanish curses spilling from her lips when she can't get free.

:::

Burt likes Rachel. Like, he adores her.

Maybe because Rachel – unlike Kurt, allows him to eat the good stuff every now and then - she sneaks him pieces of cake at Dave and Kurt's wedding, playfully chastising him when Kurt finds out, lecturing him about his heart attack and watching what he eats. The guy almost turns red (which was coincidentally the colour scheme of the wedding) until his husband pulls him away to dance.

"No more Burt, your son is going to kill me if I make you sick. I'll bake you something healthy for dinner this weekend. Right Dad?"

He catches the displeasing look on her dad's face before Rachel turns around, hiding his snicker in his napkin. His girlfriend is a good enough cook, and she's a vegetarian too. But what she constitutes as healthy for his stepfather and her dad are far from favourites with the men.

It's not too surprising how easily she fits in with his family, it's almost like she was there all along. Meeting her fathers was horrifying - her daddy was in the Marines and her dad was a cop turned lawyer. But both men welcomed him with open arms, and her dad pulled him aside and thanked him for helping their little girl open up.

It's funny, he really didn't do anything, he just talked, answering every question Rachel had asked. It took him by surprise too when she showed up at his firehouse in a pantsuit and an open scarf one evening on her way to rehearsals. October was chilly, and Rachel was wearing her blouse unbuttoned, the tip of her scar peeking out.

The more he saw of her afterwards, the more she wore her scar proudly. And when he asked her about it she'd only kissed him harder.

"If I didn't have this, I wouldn't have you."

She traces the line of his jaw, her fingers trailing over his chin and lips. He catches her hand, pressing his lips to her finger, watching her watch him.

"And it doesn't make you feel weird or anything?

"Weird? Why?

He hesitates, dropping his hand to brush his fingers over the scar on her otherwise naked body.

"That maybe the way -,"

She covers his mouth with her hand, her eyes flashing. "I told you to stop that. I love you Finn. _You_. The man lying beside me. The man you were. The man you are. And the man you will be. It doesn't matter to me what you've done in your past. And I'm pretty sure your mother didn't care. She loved you nonetheless. And she always will."

It's not that he needs to hear it, it's just nice to hear. He still feels guilty now and then, like he doesn't deserve Rachel, or the happiness he's found with her. And it still feels ridiculous when he sees Rachel's scar but at the same time it reminds him of the woman his mother was, and that she died, not knowing that her last decision would mean so much to him.

He's not sure which woman he loves more in moments like these – his mother for everything she'd ever done for him, or Rachel, for loving him even when he didn't think he was worthy to be loved.

It's a win-win though.

He rolls over onto his side, his body covering Rachel's, slanting his mouth over hers. She moans when his tongue touches her lips, wrapping her arms and legs around him.

"I love you," he whispers against her lips and Rachel shudders in his arms. She blinks her eyes open and stares at him, then curves her palm around his cheek.

"I love you."

He whispers it again when he presses inside her, his lips at her neck when she throws her head back in ecstasy, fingers gripping his shoulders. He murmurs it against her scar, licking the sweat from her body as she shudders through her release, his name on her lips like a prayer.

He breathes it with her name when he follows her over, clutching her close to him as she breaths it back against the space over his heart.

:::

Its freezing outside, minus a million fucking degrees but Rachel is still dragging him outside for a walk. Grudgingly, he agrees, burying himself in layers of warmth before taking her mittened hands in his and allowing her to tug him through the door.

"You're still not telling me where we're going? It's not like you actually know Lima."

She turns to him and sticks her tongue out and cuddles up closer to him. "You'll see."

He sighs, lets her pull him along. The good thing about his neighbourhood is that you can get anywhere by just walking. The bad thing about his neighbourhood is that almost everyone knows him, so they can't actually make more than three steps before someone passing stops him to chat. His girlfriend is gracious about it enough – she's used to the attention back home, of course – but she stands just a little bit behind him, her hand still in his as he talks to a neighbour.

It's most of the same, they offer their condolences about his mother not being around – it's been three years, honestly, he still wonders when the pain will finally fade away. He hears about them missing her at the hospital, or the little candles she used to make… it's the heavy weight of Rachel's hand in his that keeps him from saying the wrong thing. He smiles, nods politely and says merry Christmas and polite goodbye.

As they pass by the church, leaving the road, his pulse starts to quicken. Rachel looks up at him, but he keeps his face blank, staring straight ahead. She pulls his hand up to her mouth, kisses it and wraps her arm around his waist.

He nearly stops breathing when she stops outside the gate of the cemetery. His feet tell him to turn, _go back_ and Rachel seems to be waiting for him to do the same. He hasn't been here since the day the funeral. Instead of a casket, it's just a small headstone with his mother's urn encased in the cement.

It looks good. There are fresh flowers in front and beside, a candy cane and a blue ribbon. His mother was loved, that much he's always known, and it hurts a little bit less than she's not been forgotten. Not yet.

His feet feel like lead when he stops in front of his mother's final resting place. Rachel pulls away from him, and takes out a little bouquet she had under her jacket – peonies and sprigs of baby's breath. He recognizes the flowers because it's part of the large bouquet that had been delivered mysteriously at his mother's grave the day they buried her.

"It was you?" he asks hoarsely.

Rachel nods and bends down to brush away dirt and old flowers from the nameplate. She rests her small bouquet on the stone, running her fingers lightly over the words.

"A total stranger saved my life, I asked the hospital to send it on my behalf when she was being buried. I didn't know who she was then. And it was the least I could do," she murmurs. She glances up at him and gives him a sad smile. "She gave me a second chance. And an opportunity that I can never thank her for."

It's evening, but not too dark out, a light breeze making the flowers around them sway gently. Rachel's hair blows about her face and she tucks it behind her hair, looking so vulnerable and small and sad and it hits him. How magnanimous his mother was to do what she did. To save Rachel. To give him Rachel.

His mother was a godsend.

He stares at Rachel and her sad smile. Sees her thinking the same thing he's thinking.

It gets a little easier to breathe.

His girlfriend turns back to his mother's nameplate, her fingers caressing the letters. She doesn't say anything for a few minutes and he starts to wonder if she's crying before she starts talking again. Her voice is soft, but clear, and he stares at her as he listens to her speak.

"Carole, we've never met. But I owe you so, so much. I can't thank you enough for what you did for me. I wish I could have met you."

His heart twists a little, remembering the times when he saw Rachel outside the hospital chapel, mere feet away from his mother.

If only he wasn't such a cold-hearted dick back then. Rachel's next words steal the breath right from his lungs and his heart starts pounding really fast as he plays them over again in his mind. He blinks, and then she's standing in front him, looking up at him with a question in her eyes. She tugs off her gloves and he knows she must be freezing but she entwines their fingers, squeezing tight. She takes a deep breath and looks back at the headstone.

"I love your son, he's a wonderful man and I want to spend the rest of my life with him, if he'll have me."

His hand in hers go slack from shock, but Rachel grabs onto him tighter, her voice wavering a little as she continues to ask for his mother's blessing. Slowly, she turns to her head back to him, gnawing on her bottom lip, her eyes firmly closed.

He's still speechless, waiting for the correct words to come back to his brain, to help him understand exactly what was going on. Before him, Rachel takes another deep breath and her eyes slip open slowly to peer up at him.

If he's thinking what she's saying he wants to scream _YES!_ to the whole world. He remembers every minute with her, every nanosecond without her, from the days when she was just a girl at the window, to the lady on a stage to the woman who had his heart.

He loves her. He'd never deny it. And to think he was trying to build up to the courage to ask first. It blows his mind completely that she's here, with him now, in this place, asking him this.

From where their hands are still clasped together he feels warm. Like he's about to combust from happiness. All she needs to do is ask. Or he'll ask her himself.

"Ask me," he says softly.

Tears gather in Rachel's eyes, spilling over quickly before she brushes them away. She searches his eyes, worrying again at her bottom lip.

"Ask me," he repeats freeing one of his hands to tug her lip free.

She lets out a shaky laugh and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then clasps his hands between hers again. "Finn Hudson, would you do me the honour of being my husband?"

There it was.

Gently, he pulls his hands from hers, ghosting them up her arms, pushing the wavy ringlets of thick dark hair over her shoulders. He cups her cheeks, his thumbs rubbing over the soft skin and tilts her face up to his.

"I really don't know why you love me, but I want to spend every second of forever making sure you never forget it."

He watches her eyes widen slightly, tears welling up in the big brown orbs, and it's like she stops breathing. He steps closer to her, their bodies almost pressed against each other and Rachel gives one small gasp before her lip is back between her teeth.

"Yes. It would make me the happiest, luckiest man in this universe if you were my wife," he smiles at her. "Yes."

The second the first tear falls, he brushes it away and presses his lips to hers. Rachel makes this soft sound and it's like his heart wants to gallop from his chest and shout to the world that this woman loves him then wrap itself around her. His tongue sweeps out to touch her lip and she does it again, sighing softly before her lips part to welcome him.

He doesn't even realize he's crying until Rachel pulls away and cradles his face with her small hands, her face glowing.

"I love you," she whispers, bringing their faces close together. He steals another kiss, breathing the words back against her lips.

"I love you."

She buries her face into his chest, wrapping her arms around him, muffling her happy squeals into his jacket. He chuckles, and rests his chin on her shoulder, peering at the headstone behind her.

Nodding, he finally allows the tears to fall unabashed until they blur his vision. He wraps his arms tighter around the small woman who held his heart, his tears mixing with the strawberry smell of her hair. He keeps murmuring _thank you_ over and over again, and he's not sure who he's saying it to, or why, but he just needs to say it.

:::

He's in the kitchen washing the dishes while his stepfather and Dave pack away the leftovers from Christmas dinner. Rachel she was still feeling under the weather - she'd been throwing up and running a slight temperature for the past few days, even though she had cleaned her plate _twice_ at dinner _and_ denied stealing a piece of Burt's chicken (everyone saw her) – and was supposed to be with Kurt in the den when she comes screaming into the room, startling him and making him slice his palm on the fucking sharp knife Dave had cooked with earlier.

"Finn!"

He jabs his hand under the pipe and turns around to his loud wife. He's used to her dramatics by now, so he's almost sure that whatever review she's seen about her last production isn't as horrible as she's no doubt going to make it out to be.

"Yea Rach?"

"I'm pregnant," she blurts out.

He blinks a few times and then Kurt comes running in behind her and sidles up to his husband, clapping his hands daintily.

"Huh?" He's not sure he heard her correctly. But Burt is grinning like a Cheshire cat, clapping him on the back as he passes him by to grab Rachel in a big hug. He's pretty sure he looks like a fool, standing there frozen.

Rachel shrieks again and disentangles herself from Burt's arms and dashes over to him grabbing his cut hand.

"Finn! You're bleeding!"

He yelps and drags his hand away from her.

"Ye -, wait. What did you just say?"

She holds up a pink stick, pushing it towards his face, a bright pink line staring back at him.

"You're pregnant?"

Rachel nods, her smile threatening to split her face wide.

"We're pregnant?" he asks again, feeling his heart swelling with a strange emotion he's never felt before. Its happiness magnified by a million. He sweeps Rachel into his arms, giving a loud whoop and everyone in the room starts cheering. Except his brother who's screaming at him that he's getting blood all over Rachel's brand new cashmere sweater (that he bought of course).

He ignores him, and kisses his wife deeply, her fingers pushing into his hair.

"Ahem."

Rachel pulls away, her cheeks hot as she hides behind her hair, peeking up at her father-in-law. Burt chuckles loudly and winks at Finn.

"I have to go call my dads!" she squeals again and tears away from him heading towards the living room.

Burt comes over to him with a dish towel and takes his cut hand. He stands there beaming beside his stepfather, the pain a distant feeling as the older man cleans the wound.

"Congratulations son."

"Thank you sir."

"I'm too young to be a grandfather," Burt chuckles. "And any child of yours and Rachel's is bound to be a handful."

"Tell me about it," Dave mutters from behind them, earning him a smack from his husband.

"Ow! It's not like it isn't true Kurt! " He protests.

He turns to see his brother wag a finger at his husband and stalk out of the kitchen. Dave turns to them and scowl when he sees them snickering at him.

"Your mother would be proud of you, you know," Burt says gently. "I know you took it hard when she passed. I'm sorry I didn't try harder -,"

"Burt, thanks. You did all you could. I was just being an asshole."

Burt chuckles again, wrapping the dishcloth around his palm. Then he pulls him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. He hugs his father back, grateful to the man who managed to surpass the dreams he'd had of the man he always thought was his father.

He's high on good food and happiness when Rachel crawls into bed beside him later that night. Kurt and Dave had gone back to the hotel, Burt tagging along with them, joking about not wanting to stay under the same roof as newlyweds.

"I take it the whole world now knows?" He opens his arms and she falls into them, throwing her hair over her shoulder.

"No, I just told my dads. I mean, I took ten of those– I made Kurt go to the store before he came over - and they all came back the same. But I'm going to make a doctor's appointment tomorrow just to be extra sure. And I don't want anyone else to know, until, you know?"

She twists in his arms, looking up at him. He nods and twirls a strand of her hair around his finger.

"What do you think it'll be?"

"I really don't care. As long as our baby is whole and healthy, I'm good." He grins at her and ghosts his palm over her stomach. It's still flat and taut but there's a baby growing inside his tiny wife and he's really looking forward to rest of his life.

"Yes, I know that Finn. But wouldn't you want a little boy with your eyes and your nose who you can toss a football around with?"

He sighs, lets his head fall back against the pillow. "I'd love a little girl with your eyes and your nose just as much."

He chuckles as Rachel crinkles her nose at him. "I'd prefer he or she had your nose. Me going through life with my nose was cruel enough for the rest of my generation."

"I love your nose. And if our son or daughter had your nose too I'd love him or her just the same."

Rachel gives him a sweet smile and kisses him quickly, rubbing at the scruff at his jaw.

"You need to shave."

"Well, if we have a boy I can teach him how to," he chuckles again.

"I want a girl," Rachel admits.

"Mhmmm," he says.

"We can name her Carole."

He never had grandparents, and Rachel's fathers' grandparents weren't around – one set had passed and Hiram's father and he never really spoke, so. Burt's father was still alive though. And sure, it might be cliché to name their first daughter after a woman she'd never meet, but in reality, if it weren't for his mother, chances are he and Rachel would never have met.

So cliché or no, it was an excellent idea. And if they had a boy, well, they'd have to find a male equivalent to the name.

Rachel's stares up at him, eyes bright and shining in the soft moonlight coming in the through window. Her skin looks radiant – he's heard of women glowing while they were pregnant and his wife looks like some ethereal dream in his arms.

Briefly, he wonders again if it's unfair for him to be this happy, if he really deserves a life like this. Rachel. An unborn child they made together. He hears his mother's voice, tsking at him, to stop being ridiculous. Or maybe it was Santana's.

He shakes his head, shrugging off the self-doubt and meets his wife's curious gaze.

"Yeah?"

His hand on her stomach creeps higher, fingers brushing over the scar on her chest, a surge of pride and happiness welling up inside him.

"Yeah."

_-fin-_

* * *

**A/N2: So this was very late, and I'm really sorry and do hope it was worth the wait. A friend of mine's song that he's posted on YouTube (_Battle Scars_ by Nacul) actually helped me to get thru writing this so you thank him for the final inspiration. Hope y'all liked it ;-)**


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